Walking in Their Feet

I knelt on the floor at his feet. He sat in his arm chair, a
red pack of Pall Malls and brown quart of beer nearby. We didn’t speak. I
tugged away, loosening the leather strings of his heavy work boots, using a
fork on the most stubborn knots. I pulled
with all my might, freeing his feet to rest in their thick white socks. It’s
one of few fond memories of time with my father.

My older siblings tell me Dad was exceptionally intelligent.
An intuitive once told me he was horribly abused as a child. He never had the
chance for an education beyond high school, suffered from addictions, struggled
to support a family of 10.

One Christmas, six weeks after a lung cancer diagnosis, my
father died at the age I am now. Dad would have turned 100 this week.

My father’s death left my mother widowed at the age of 59,
just four years older than I would be when I was widowed. She would live to 85.

The last time I was with my mom was a snowy December day.
She was in the hospital. Her heart was
failing.

She was sitting up in a chair. I knelt on the floor at her
feet. I never knew my mother’s legs to be anything other than thick and riddled
with purple and blue bulging veins. Nine pregnancies and years of standing for long
hours waiting tables took their toll even before her battered heart began to
give out.

I carefully removed her stockings. I slowly massaged her
swollen feet with lotion. As her heart was nearing its final beat, mine was full
of gratitude for the moment.

Global teacher Thich Haht Nanh reminds us that our feet are
made of the feet of our mother and our father. He encourages us to imagine
their feet as we walk. He says that this way our parents are always with us.

My parents walked paths of hardship, heartbreak, and broken
dreams. Because of who they were to me and for me, I walk a path of grace. My
feet are firmly planted. My heart strong and open. My dreams coming true.